


More Than Enough

by kinglychan (avius)



Series: comfort in the crook of your elbow [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: (its 4k but shh), Affectionate Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Campfire, Concert, Give Idols Therapists 2k18, Idols, Jeonghan has Anxiety, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Seungcheol being the best leader ever, Teething Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups, how do you tag shit ive forgotten, jeongcheol is very vague and possibly established, my boy jihoon gets a mention bc he ships it hard, pure fluff, shoulder nibbling? yknow the scoups thing? what even is that, this is my first fanfic in over a year pls be kind, waterbottle assistant #1 is me, we all deserve a seungcheol in our lives, well i mean its not platonic thats sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avius/pseuds/kinglychan
Summary: "Jeonghan was very grateful. But right now, no kind-smiling therapist could save him from the tormenting rattle of his heart against his ribs or the endless drone of doubt after doubt."Jeonghan's anxiety causes him to have a panic attack on stage and only one person can bring him down.((aka give idols therapists 2k18))





	More Than Enough

**Author's Note:**

> sup kiddos. new year, new pseud. i haven't written, let alone posted fanfic since dec 2016, so forgive the rust lmao. this was just a cute idea i had after watching all of the fansign and concert fancams of these two gay boys being gay so here we go. i still feel quite uncomfortable abt irl ships but let's ignore that for the sake of fluff.
> 
> i put the english translations in italics in case yall are to lazy to look em up, got them from [colourcodedlyrics.com.](https://colorcodedlyrics.com/2017/11/seventeen-campfire-kaempeupaieo)
> 
>  
> 
> just another warning: this does cover anxiety and mental illness so if this raises some shit, please seek out the ears of someone you love and trust. the depiction of is based off some friend's testimony and a lil bit of my personal experience, but i am not diagnosed w an anxiety disorder, so if there's something here that's depicting anxiety incorrectly, please let me know!

 “Yoon Jeonghan, just get a fucking grip. Don’t fucking think for one fucking second” his own voice threatened, echoing in the confines of his flurrying mind.

Jeonghan knew the group’s therapist would be disappointed at this, as he was ever insistent about “counteracting his reinforcement spiral of negative cognitive processes”. He, however, dismissed this thought as it clearly wasn’t the time to put his therapist’s strategies in place. When Jeonghan had brought it up to Jihoon, in a fleeting moment of sleep-deprivated vulnerability that can only be drawn out in the intimacy of the recording booth, Jihoon had protested that it was in fact the only time to enact such strategies. Jihoon’s apparent shyness actually stemmed from a deeper anxiety disorder as was revealed that night. The therapist had played a part in soothing this for him, as he had for Jeonghan. There was something about his soothing smile that was able to break through to Jeonghan, within the confines of the cosy grey coloured room of his monthly chats. Jeonghan would be the first to deny his stubbornness, but as the therapist had pointed out, that only served as evidence. He found himself oddly able to open up to the therapist, in the ways he previously could only with his closest bandmates.

The therapist had been Cheol and Shua’s doing, after recognising that there was a need for such support in the group of young members with rising fame. Mental health was taboo in society, and even more so within the industry, but Shua’s knowledgable and westerner influence and Cheol’s observant compassion for his members had led to it. Jeonghan was very grateful.

But right now, no kind-smiling therapist could save him from the tormenting rattle of his heart against his ribs or the endless drone of doubt after doubt. His mind was on the brink of overflowing, horrid thoughts no longer placated by booming music, complex choreography, bright lights and deafening fanchants. Everyone was staring, everyone was listening, everyone was filming and photographing and scrutinising his every move, none of which was rehearsed any more. He’d never be enough for them, for it all.

It wasn’t a new sensation, but it wasn’t one he’d managed to get accustomed to regardless. He loved the stage, he really did, which made everything worse. He knew prying eyes would see his hesitation as a dislike for his fans, which started another train of negative thoughts on another infinite track of worrying.

He blinked slowly, once soft and wavy mid parted bangs now clinging to his sticky forehead, flat and suffocating.

“Keep your smile on your face or so god help me, Jeonghan, I’ll strangle you,” his head threatened, and the chorus picked up once more. He hastily took out one in-ear, then the other, in a desperate attempt to be filled with a chaotic jumble of noise that wasn’t in the tune of his own melodic torments. It didn’t work.

“Impossible to self-strangle.”

“Mightn’t be, check Naver when you get backstage.”

“Probably able to override your own brain.”

“You don’t ever have control over it anyway.”

“Your smile is slipping again.”

“They’ll notice you faulted.”

“They love you. Show them you love them.”

“Why aren’t you given them what they want?”

“You’re not deserving of their love.”

“All you do the product of someone else.”

“You will never be able to fill their loving gazes.”

“You’re not enough.”

“You’re never enough.”

Then, like a drop of oil in water, a singular point of contact scattered the thoughts momentarily. The bone of a right shoulder nestled against his left shoulder blade. The oil sent another ripple of murky water outward, as the shoulder was joined by a torso and leg until the left side of back is pressed flush against a sturdy body. He leant into the touch, allowing his neck to give way a little, and looked up to the ceiling way above the theatre.

He focused on the new sensation to draw his mind out of the cave it had holed itself into. Bangs drenched with sweat, much more than his own, tickled his neck, as laboured breathing warmed his shoulder through the thin tee shirt. He pressed his microphone into the denim of his thigh.

“You’re more than enough,” a soft voice promised, words breathed intently into his shoulder as if they were able to hear every word spoken in his mind. If he had kept his in-ears in, he could’ve easily missed it. They were the first words that had cut through his own monologue since the music had stopped. The tension in his shoulders involuntarily loosened. He didn’t believe the words, couldn’t, but wanted to, as much as he trusted the mouth from which they had come. Its lips found their way around the bone of his shoulder, in a sort of odd compromise between playful bite and affectionate kiss, and paused. Jeonghan was well aware of what was needed to unfreeze the comforting lips. A steadier exhale, a murmured “yeah”, a playful shove; any sign of being a little less in his head and more with the moment.

There was something about tonight that made that all that harder, and Jeonghan couldn’t gather enough brain power to consider it. He ached to turn in his place, collapse onto the shoulder behind him, bury his face in the dependable crook between neck and tee shirt collar, and not flinch as the skin of his neck flushed. Instead, his skin was painted in lights, from flashing light sticks and cameras and the bright stage lights.

The lips detached without warning, and like the flick of a switch, the thoughts once again flooded into his mind with full force. He shivered at the sudden loss of warmth, of contact, of his tether to the world that existed beyond his bubbling anxiety. His hand moved to his shoulder, fingertips grazing the tee shirt where a slightly damp patch sat from the warm breath of the other’s mouth. But, as quickly as they had left, lips pressed a chaste kiss to his stilled hand. The fullness of the pink lips resting on his knuckles for only a moment wasn’t some sort of awkward and forced skinship, but held promises of worth and love.

“Hey, you’re more than enough, okay?” the voice was soft in his ear, as Jeonghan felt his shoulders be tugged into a side embrace.

“Cheol,” he whispered in reply, finally meeting the eyes his unwavering support. They were vibrant with adrenaline, despite their obvious concern, and in the serenity of the moment, Jeonghan couldn’t help but admire the unbridled passion that radiated from Seungcheol on stage. He tried to focus on the discussion occurring at the opposite end of the line: Seungkwan’s joyous voice engaging in some call and response as the rest of the team panted. Or alternatively, on the slightly louder high-pitched screams that were emitted almost immediately, in reaction his repositioning. But he couldn’t. Hand on his shoulder, torso against his other, hair against his, lips in the air between his shoulder and cheek, eyes just there, looking up at his, hidden under eyelashes long and low, so close, so close, too fucking far. Always too far. Always not enough.

“You’ll never be enough.”

His heartbeat stuttered, constricting his throat and his lungs, as if to say, don’t you dare to forget all of this is out of reach. The moment broke, and he lurched forward, desperate for air, because holy fuck he’s not on the brink anymore, and couldn’t stop thinking about the flashing cameras and collective gasp as he does so. Wonwoo’s deep steady voice disappears, even though he hadn’t noticed its presence until it left. Jeonghan’s hands found his throat, his chest, his stomach, fucking anything, trying to tear it open as if he himself needed to crack open so that any air could pass through.

Hands found his knees, and he blinked until he saw them as his own. His tongue was heavy, a limp weight in his mouth. It was too big for the cavity it was designed for, ill-fitting and awkward as it obscured his airflow. He needed to lean back, his therapist said so, but his knees were three seconds from collapsing and he was sure as fuck he wasn’t going to collapse on stage. He had no control over that of course, but it was fun to play pretend. He was an idol, this is what he does for a living, so his anger grew at his body for fighting it. Not enough, never enough.

Warmth found the small of his hunched back. It took Jeonghan three seconds to decipher the feeling. Seungcheol’s broad hand found the small of his back, knowing not to exceed that with anymore physical contact, regardless of his desire to, as Jeonghan knew by the twitch of fingers. Another hand found his shoulder before lifting off almost immediately. It was Shua’s tell tale sign, the contact more to appease himself and the concerned crowd rather than soothe Jeonghan. He wanted to sob, to turn off his squabbling mind, to breathe actual air, to get out of the the gaze of thousands of eyes. He wanted to lean into Cheol’s hand, which surprised him more than anything, until he was surprised further by his body involuntarily doing so.

Joshua was speaking now, voice high and soft, but Jeonghan couldn’t distinguish the meanings of the sounds. Seungcheol’s second hand rested briefly on his back, then lifted a few times. Right, coughing fit. That’s what the therapist had said to disguise it as. It was so dumb, underestimating the intelligence of their audience greatly, but at the time, it had been brought up as very much a hypothetical. His awareness was flittering back, brain grasping at words spoken into the air and not just his head, like “cough” and “water” and “quick break”.

Seungcheol’s first hand pressed down harder and directed him to turn away from the front of the stage. Jeonghan’s breathing still hadn’t returned to being actually functioning, and his tongue still sat limp like a fucking enemy in his mind. His throat was dry and his hands were clammy, microphone slipping in his grasp. He felt himself being pulled further away from the crowd, Cheol’s warm and soft voice ever present in his ear, and he was grateful even though he couldn’t understand it.

The backstage was dark and cool, a stark comparison to the heat of the lights and scrutiny of the stage. A chair was waiting, which he was forced onto, the concerned faces of the staff around him barely registering as human in his gaze. And then, Seungcheol’s face, backlit by the light seeping in from the wings, interrupted his rattling isolation.

“Hey, Hannie,” his lips moved, and as if the audio was lagged, Jeonghan heard his words two seconds later. The buzz of the crowd no longer propelling him into a jittering overstimulated mess, his brain had slowed and his stomach dropped and he couldn’t stay in the moment. The sudden switch wasn’t any better, but a rest to his lungs was appreciated. The boy across from him moved his lips again, the tone in his eyes shifting between concerned leader and concerned friend. “I know this is a lot. You need to try to listen to my voice though, yeah?”

He just gasped again, each gulp grasping more oxygen little by little. Seungcheol’s hand found his the bare skin of his knee through the tear in his jeans.

“You’re doing so well; keep breathing.” The world was still hazy, but his words actually reverberated in his brain.

“Breathe with me, yeah? You’re doing so well,” his voice was slipping now, as if the adrenaline of needing to help was beginning to run thin and the terror of the situation was unable to be held back any more. One hand still of his knee, Seungcheol grabbed Jeonghan’s and held it securely under his over his chest. His heartbeat was wild, which didn’t help, but the breathing was forcefully slow. Seungcheol’s other hand left his knee, heat still radiating from the contact, and found its place next to Jeonghan’s rapid heart.

They sat like that for a while, mirroring each other. Jeonghan’s head was still squirming but it hurt him less; its presence was a little less present in the exterior reality. The rhythm of his breathing eventually paired with that of the chest in front of him, but they didn’t move. They didn’t have much time left until they had to perform again, the approaching encore greedily chewing at their time like the anxiety that gnawed at his gut. Some fans would be undoubtedly pissed off the pair wasn’t there for almost the entirety of the interaction time; however, he knew others would want nothing more than for him to be okay. It was an stilted, ignorant sort of affection, without any actual intimacy but full of intensity, and one that he had come to appreciate. It still managed to set him into a spiral of panic regardless.

Seungcheol’s hand tentatively lifted from his chest to the join of the other’s shoulder, and Jeonghan magically snapped back to his head. Even though the mental noise had reduced to single lines of thought, it was easy to spiral quickly and unravel the past minutes of progress. Seungcheol was an angel in his eyes, his black hair backlit and glowing like a halo, soft and warm hand knowing when and where to touch, his soft and warm voice knowing what and when to say.

“Uh, was it me?” Seungcheol asked, his voice was completely void of his authority, and Jeonghan almost reached out to hold the man who seemed younger than he ever had before.

“Not really,” Jeonghan assured, although it lacked the conviction the leader was clearly searching for. His voice was surprisingly settled, relative to the residual panic coursing in his bloodstream. Jeonghan continued before he had the chance to awkwardly stutter an apology. His second hand moved to the nape of his neck, soothing the tension there and coercing the man to lean forward a little more. “It wasn’t you okay? I have anxiety, this is going to happen sometimes.”

It did little to soothe the apologetic man. “So it was- I-I’m sor-“

“Oh my god, Cheol,” he chuckled, his breath apparently strong enough for that, and looked at him with fond eyes. “I needed it, okay? You did the right thing.”

His head dropped, and Jeonghan had trouble distinguishing the embarrassment from guilt or from the compliment. “If it was the right thing, none of this would have happened,” he mumbled. “Not that it’s anyone’s fault,” he added, as if to prove he was taking into consideration Jeonghan’s words.

“I was just overwhelmed, okay?” The cheers outside picked up, causing both to flinch, but no hands shifted from their steady hold.

“Kiss on the hand was a bit much, ey?” Seungcheol chuckled, voice low and a little hurried, desperate to continue but also very much aware of the work they had to do. Jeonghan cracked a smile too, lips feeling unstable but willing.

The cheers got louder, and the pair were abruptly joined by Jihoon, his gummy grin slipping with concern.

“Hey you two,” he breathed, absorbing the sight before him. He’d probably ran back here to fetch them. The pair didn’t remove their hands, still held close. Jihoon’s eyes were calm and soft, but he tapped the base of his mic with ferocity. “You feeling a bit more steady?”

His eyes met Jeonghan’s, their conversation from the late night recording session sitting in his word like an unspoken context.

“Yeah, a little,” his voice had regained its lightness, and he welcomed the change that contrasted the scratchiness of his internal monologue.

“You guys need to come out,” Jihoon said, causing Seungcheol’s neck to grow a little hot under Jeonghan’s palm despite the obvious meaning. “They’re getting restless. Seungcheol, you need to thank them on behalf of us at the very least.”

The reluctance was clear in Jihoon’s voice, despite his blunt words; he knew not to force someone back into a panic situation, and he was one of three teammates who knew the extent of Jeonghan’s anxiety, but this was a professional environment, and in the industry, no one else gave two fucks about mental wellbeing. He was a face, a body, a voice, a product. The daunting expectation hit him again, but instead of another slip into panic, the soft hand on his heart and his shoulder anchored him in security.

Seungcheol’s eyes drew Jeonghan’s away from Jihoon, a silent apology lacing his glimmering irises. Giving his neck a subtle squeeze, Jeonghan stood, dragging Seungcheol up with him. They untangled, nodded, and picked up their mics from the floor.

“You go first,” Jeonghan suggested, despite being the obvious action, which he hoped came across as confirmation he was okay. Seungcheol demeanour transformed as he jumped on the spot a few times, and Jeonghan took the moment to admire his relentless hard work and dedication. With the dorkiest grin, he tucked his in ears back in and nodded to Jihoon.

Jihoon ran back on, the crowd emitted some more cheers. The leader turned, and locked eyes with Jeonghan. Now relatively alone again, he relished in the moment. Seungcheol was the most affection person he knew of, but nothing could compare to the intimacy of the gazes they shared. Jeonghan forced himself to close his eyes in order to refocus, to put on his idol mask.

“You’re more than more than enough,” Seungcheol promised, and Jeonghan felt light fingertips brush his cheekbone. “You’re the most perfect you you can be, to me.”

It was “I love you” spoken in different syllables.

He opened his eyes as an assistant, unbothered by the affection or just very good at her job, pressed a half-filled water bottle into his palm.

Jeonghan wanted to return the favour, to tell Seungcheol all the ways he loved him even though he knew most of them already, wanted to take the breath from his lips even though he’d only just gotten his own back.

But Seungcheol just turned, his forefinger and thumb pinched into a tiny heart in the fist behind his back as he turned on stage. It was a gag they’d both shared since pre-debut, as finger hearts were only ever fanservice and nothing more. An easy and casual way to show support to someone you’ll never exchange a conversation with, or to show gratitude in reply. But when tucked away from view, two fingers holding a world of promises meant more than that.

With a deep sigh, he tucked his in ears back into the shell of his ears, their comforting snug fit coercing him back to the stage. He loved it, he just wasn’t sure his anxiety did.

He stepped back into the view of the lights, and the stadium erupted into cheering. It would have been much less dramatic if he’d never left, which would have been easier on his beating heart, but he wouldn’t exchange the past few minutes of intimacy for the world. What he didn’t expect, however, was the line of 11 men, his second family, facing him with concerned smiles and adorable little finger hearts. Jeonghan stopped walking for a bit to laugh at the sight, and his pause allowed his ears to pick apart the cheers.

The venue was filled by screams of “I love you, Jeonghan,” with some "oppa”s and "hyung”s smashed onto the ends. If he peered closely, the crowd was sending him finger hearts too. Overwhelmed, and a little high off the positive attention, he continued to his usual spot, to see Seungcheol, the dork that he is, leading the chants.

He’s waving a finger heart in time with his shouting - and everyone else’s- with his other hand behind his back in what would appear to be cutesy enthusiasm to anyone who couldn’t see the second finger heart firm at the small of his back.

Holding the microphone slackly in one hand, Jeonghan slapped the man’s shoulder fondly with the other, who turned to him with a face-splitting grin and so much love in his sparkling eyes.

“You dork,” he teased, and felt the ease of his presence seeping into his bones. The cheering had fallen apart to a clattering of shouts and clapping, and the rest of the team were laughing with Jeonghan at the ridiculousness of the situation. He turned to the front of the stage, raising the microphone to his lips and preparing his voice, “I’m not fatally ill everyone, just a coughing fit!”

The crowd laughed, and he continued with his speech after Soonyoung gestured for him to continue. “Thank-you guys for being patient, I just needed some water and a rest ‘til it passed,” he continued, weakly holding up the bottle as some sort of proof. “But I hope all my beautiful carats still enjoyed themselves, did you have fun tonight?”

Mingyu, to his right, clasped a friendly broad hand on his shoulder blade, the contact heavily weighted with a lot more than casual skinship. It was a way to check he was doing okay, and he appreciated it, as he did from all his members that interacted with him through the rest of his chat and Seungcheol’s wrapping up.

Seungcheol was more affectionate then usual, soft hands finding his arm, shoulder, even ruffling his hair at one point. (It’d become a hobby of his since he was no longer able to card his fingers through his longer hair.) When Seungcheol spoke, he easily picked up the crowd, his mesmerising charisma holding the venue’s attention with ease. After Seungcheol said his final thanks, they usually walked around for the encore, waving and smiling at Carats as they sang along to Campfire together. It seemed manageable to Jeonghan, and he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if they had a prolonged interaction segment at another point other than the end. He had his suspicions as to why that had never happened, but knew he’d get a smack on the arm for embarrassing Cheol. He silently vowed to ask later tonight regardless.

To the soundtrack of applause and the intro of Campfire, he and Joshua made his way over to the far left, swaying along to thousands of smiling faces. They both sang their lines, smiling as they went, and Jeonghan felt himself easily slipping back into the comfort of performance. They turned, intending to go back to the centre for the chorus, to see Seungcheol making his way over with an arm outstretched.

He lazily slung the arm over Jeonghan’s shoulder, and as if by response, his own found its way around his waist. They jogged a little faster, Joshua beside them, to the centre where they joined Seokmin to sway along as he sung his lines. The warmth of the embrace radiating into his side would be uncomfortable if it weren’t for the arms belonging to Seungcheol and the soothing effect that came with him. His smile was wide, built on the joy of his friends and his fans supporting the band that he had worked so hard for, and it was impossible for the members to not grin along. Channie began to sing his lines and Jeonghan felt his shoulders being tugged over to the right of the stage. He was willing to follow the leader, if it meant longer to bask in his unburdened joy.

As Jun began his lines, Seungcheol dropped his arm to his waist and pulled him even closer, now waving along with the crowd. His attention wasn’t on Jeonghan, but on his singing members and the crowd that sang with them. And yet, he still kept a careful watch over him, as if checking the pace of his breathing in his peripheral vision. Minghao shot a knowing smirk at Jeonghan, who couldn’t help but send a teasing glare back, and the two laughed until Jeonghan was distracted by the low rumble of Seungcheol’s rapping.

“나보다 눈치도 빠르지”

_“You’re quicker than me”_

He sang of trust and love unburdened by time, and Jeonghan couldn’t stop his heart from fluttering with a different kind of anxiety.

“속도 모르고 시간은 흘러가지”

_“But I didn’t know and time kept passing”_

The song was for the fans, an adorable serenade to thank them for the journey they have embarked alongside the thirteen guys, and yet, that night, the words seemed etched into the night sky only for his eyes.  

“쉽진 않았지 너와 나 여기까지도”

_“It wasn’t easy, coming here”_

It wasn’t a belief, but more of an emotion to experience, and so he did, closing his eyes to absorb the words he had heard so many times: mumbled in a sleepy voice in the earliest hours of the morning, resonating in the acoustics of the bathroom and hummed under his breath as he wrote them.

“오는 길 서로만 믿고 왔지”

_“We only trusted in each other during the way”_

Seungcheol’s lines ended, but his grip around Jeonghan’s waist didn’t falter. They moved to where Hansol was waving and grinning at the crowd, swaying along. His head was calm, a jarring contrast to minutes before. The panic had resided to a corner of his mind, like the retreat of a low tide, the anchor of Cheol’s arm stopping him from drifting out to sea once more.

It gave him leeway to cherish the moment freely, and all too quickly, his lines in the final chorus approached.

In Seungcheol’s arm, he turned, the microphone wedged between his lips and Cheol’s neck. He pulled back a little, only to give his lungs a chance to breathe enough to belt the high notes. The music gently subsided, as it does, and the crowd began to clap along, but Jeonghan’s world focused in to nothing but the man next to him.

He took a deep breath, and the ease of doing what he loves warmed his spine.

“힘들고 너 지칠 때” 

_“When things are hard and you’re tired,”_

It took a moment to register that his voice was joined by a second, much deeper and raspier, and he couldn’t but chuckle at the harmonic two toned words that were laced with a secret promise.

“그댈 밝혀 줄게요”

_“I’ll shine on you”_

Seungcheol’s ear splitting grin was filled with pride and love, and his previous promises echoed in Jeonghan’s mind. He hoped, in the blink of an eye, the words were true.

“환하게 웃어봐요”

" _Smile brightly”_

And for a moment, he believed it.

“You’re more than enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr main: [@curiousmug](https://curiousmug.tumblr.com/)  
> tumblr kpop: [@softemyg](https://softemyg.tumblr.com/)  
> twitter main: [@thecuriousmug](https://twitter.com/thecuriousmug/)  
> twitter kpop: [@yoongcheolie](https://twitter.com/yoongcheolie/)
> 
> thanks for reading and look out for some more stuff soon, ily


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